Trapped in Amber
by SrslyNo
Summary: It's Wilson's first full day back at PPTH after the events in the finale, Wilson's Heart. It deals with how he handles his personal and professional life from his POV. Sad!Wilson. A little bit of Cuddy.


**Summary:** How Wilson deals with his personal and professional life after the events in Wilson's Heart. Angst.

**Spoilers:** Wilson's Heart.

**Characters:** Wilson, some Cuddy

**Rating:** PG13

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, even if I rename my cats, House and Wilson.

**Notes:** Written for the House/Cuddy/Wilson/Amber Drabble-A-Thon for the HouseWilson community after watching House's Head. It is revised, I hope for the better, and includes more detail. I needed to write something about Wilson's feelings, and my own grief over the potential damage to many of my fanfic outlines. Alas, the two-headed sword of fan fiction – the writers keep writing fascinating characterizations, but throw curve balls to the fans! Not beta'd. Reviews and concrit welcome.

Trapped in Amber

A voice keeps talking to him until he is fully awake. His head explodes as he realizes the alarm clock is switched to radio mode. He automatically turns away from the empty side of the bed and stretches a shaky hand toward the glowing numbers searing into his retinas, and aborts the sentinel's revilie.

Today is his first full day back to work.

Mentally he reviews his morning ritual. Shower. Shave. Clothes. Coffee. An hour - tops.

Two hours later he returns to the edge of the bed to tie the laces on his shoes.

_Everything takes too damn long._

He wants to lie back down on his side of the bed.

A shudder tightens his chest, and he presses the heels of his palms to his eyelids, _"Get through this day . . . get through this anyway you can." _

--

Before entering the citadel, he is wishing it is the end of the day.

In the hospital, he walks the halls without hearing his own footsteps.

He's a living ghost.

Unwilling to move forward.

Trapped in the past.

His humanity finds no solace in delivering truncated life sentences to his patients, watching dreams and goals fly from their souls, and extinguishing the light from their eyes. Patients not only say thank you, but look surprised and smile shyly when he sheds sympathetic tears along with theirs.

He feels disconnected. He doesn't care that House or his team catch him falling out of step with a Ddx, or loses the thread of a conversation in a board meeting.

At the end of the day Cuddy beckons him into her office for some official business that both of them know won't hold his interest. He really can't make the effort to organize the buzzwords into any semblance of order and create a coherent whole. But, as the discussion concludes, Cuddy's concerned gaze catches his attention in time to hear her voice switch from hospital administrator to supportive friend. She walks over to him, places a hand on his shoulder, and her hushed voice penetrates to his soul. "I know this is a difficult for you, James, but over time the pain in your heart will lessen, even if it never completely goes away."

With the last appointment behind him, he sighs in relief. It's time to leave.

--

He hurries back to the apartment to medicate the day's pain. He should stop and pick up food, but shrugs off the thought.

As he steps through the door, he eagerly seeks the lingering after-image of her elegant body, blonde hair slipping around a corner and out of sight, but then shakes his head at his foolishness.

Dark brown eyes focus on the near-full bottle of bourbon next to the sofa. He navigates single-mindedly toward the Elysium landmark, reaching for a fresh glass as he makes his way across the room.

He can't prevent his hand from trembling as he pours the golden brown liquid. Such eagerness used to be reserved for the first touch of her warm, and silky skin. The cold hard glass mocks him.

He raises the tumbler to his lips, "To Amber," he whispers, closes his eyelids, and swallows the searing liquid, sensing the fiery trail to his stomach. The first drink stings his eyes and makes them water, permitting small wet tears to follow the initial reflex. He doesn't bother to brush the hurt away.

Darkness prevails as the level in the bottle drops, and his toasts become short distorted prayers.

_Please, I love . . . loved her. _

_How do I go on?_

Each night, the same anguished prayers go unanswered, and he prescribes a heavier dose of alcohol to dull the pain.

He drinks until he can barely remember what he wants.

Until, what he wants fades into what he thinks he needs.

He only needs amber . . . colored . . . Bourbon.


End file.
